The Twelfth Department

by William Ryan

  “Thank you. I need to use your phone now, if you don’t mind. In private.”

  “Help yourself,” Spinsky said, and Korolev had the impression he was glad the interview was over.

  * * *

  Yasimov’s family lived right beside the shared kommunalka phone and his son answered. Yasimov himself was soon on the other end of the line.

  “With Goldstein and a youngster called Petrov, you say? That fits in with the station sighting. Could Yuri have known they were going to leg it from the orphanage in advance?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe he just ran into them by chance—at the station perhaps. And the rest followed on from that.”

  “I remember that youngster, Goldstein. Red hair, runt.”

  “Bigger now, but still has the red hair. Cut short, of course—they keep the children’s hair trim here.”

  “Mmmm. And Petrov—taller, brown hair, also with a close-shaved head, you say? It could be them. It sounds like them.”

  “I’ve photographs. And I’ve a hunch I know where they might be going. This Azarov Institute had a home for children attached to it—two of his gang were transferred there. Somewhere out near Lefortovo, and I half-wonder if Goldstein doesn’t plan to spring them.”

  He didn’t add that there was every chance the place no longer existed, like the institute itself—but Goldstein couldn’t know that might be the case.

  “Another thing—there’s a sergeant called Pushkin over in Razin street.”

  “Pushkin?” Korolev could hear the bemusement in Yasimov’s voice.

  “I think he finds it as odd as you do. Anyway, he knows Goldstein—and probably knows his haunts as well. There was an old stable they used—I don’t know if it’s still there. Look him up.”

  “I’ll do it now, brother,” Yasimov said. “This very minute.”

  “Listen, Mitya. I’ve a problem here, but if I can slip away—I will.”

  Korolev thought about the men in the Emka outside. With a bit of luck he might find a way to drop them.

  “If you can, you can. If not, don’t worry.”

  Korolev felt a little glow of optimism—the Goldstein connection was the first real clue they’d had as to where his son might be.

  * * *

  The director had left him with the telephone, no doubt planning to reacquaint himself with his dinner as quickly as possible. When Korolev hung up he gathered the boys’ files together and opened the door—and was almost crushed by a surprised Little Barrel stumbling into the room.

  “What the hell?” he managed to say, startled more than frightened. But almost instinctively, his hand had reached for his gun and there it was, snug in his hand.

  “The director told me to stand here.”

  But if Korolev was any judge it wasn’t just shyness that was preventing her from meeting his eyes.

  “You were listening.” It came out as a statement rather than a question.

  “I have ears,” the girl said, her head hanging with shame. “They do the listening.”

  Korolev sighed, replacing the Walther in his holster. He found himself patting her elbow.

  “Ears do that, they’re tricky things. Come on, I need to go home—you’d better let me out.”

  “Of course, Comrade Captain. Thank you. You won’t tell him, will you?”

  “No, of course not. How much did you hear?”

  “About your son. About Kim and Petya. About that place.”

  Petya must be Petrov.

  “What place are you talking about?”

  “The place in the woods, the place where they send them—out near Lefortovo. I keep them safe here—no one hurts them.” She looked up at him, her eyes fierce. “I look after them.”

  “But it’s different at this other place?”

  “Yes.”

  And Korolev saw a teardrop, a huge teardrop, form at the corner of her eye.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  When Korolev came out of the orphanage he found the Emka had been replaced with another car—a Ford—and two new Chekists as well. He looked at them and they looked back—alert and wide awake—and Korolev felt the tiredness drag at him and realized it would be pointless to try to shake them off.

  He drove through the still summer-warm streets with fear for his son’s well-being weighing heavily on him once again—that glimmer of optimism not quite so strong after Little Barrel’s warning. He’d tried to get her to tell him more, but then she’d clammed up so tight he might as well have been talking to himself—and so now he found himself worrying over the little she had said, like a dog with a bone, and not much liking the taste of it. Outside the streets were full of Muscovites enjoying the warmth of the evening, some staggering with drink, others just out to stretch their legs rather than stay put in some sweltering little box that had been carved out of an already over-crowded kommunalka just for them. But Korolev looked through them all—the only person he had eyes for was Yuri.

  * * *

  By the time he’d reached Bolshoi Nikolo-Vorobinsky, his thoughts had turned against himself. What kind of man was he? That he’d managed to put his own son at risk? He’d known for a year now that this job of his came with compromises, yet he’d usually done his best to avoid them. Why? And what was more, he’d known the job itself was a dangerous one—twice in the last twelve months he’d been close to disaster. And he’d known the risks weren’t only being taken by him—every morning he saw the queue of ordinary citizens outside Petrovka, waiting to find out from the records office which prison a relative had been sent to. And yet still he carried on trying to bring an antiquated version of justice to a society that thought telling a joke about the leadership a more serious crime than murder. He could have asked to do something else, training youngsters perhaps—he’d earned it, after all. Instead he’d carried on, putting his head deeper and deeper into the lion’s mouth. He could see now it had been selfish. If he got Yuri back he’d give it up, work in a factory if needs be, and keep his head where it belonged—intact and on his shoulders.

  His steps were slow as he climbed the stairs to his apartment—not least, because he’d no hope whatsoever that his son would be there waiting for him. It felt as if the very air itself was thick with collective anxiety, and no trace of the joy he’d expect if the boy had returned safe and sound. He wondered what the other inhabitants of the building made of it all—he’d no doubt they’d seen him park the car, watched him cross the road, and now were listening to his footsteps as he climbed the stairs. They’d no doubt seen the two Chekists pull in behind him, as well.

  Perhaps they’d already come to the conclusion that whatever was going on with Korolev’s son, it would be best to avoid the Militiaman until the matter had resolved itself, one way or another. He couldn’t blame them. He doubted Lobkovskaya was the only one who knew that Chekists had searched his room. And now he was going to have to tell Valentina what had happened—and he wondered what she might say.

  He opened the door to his apartment and walked through to the shared room. Valentina was sitting at the table, Natasha beside her. Lobkovskaya was on the Chesterfield and Shura, Babel’s maid, was beside her. He stopped, looking from face to face, thinking what good fortune it was to have friends such as these—and what a responsibility as well. Valentina, meanwhile, had risen to her feet in one graceful movement. She came to him and wrapped her arms around him and held him close, and Korolev, despite himself, felt tears itching the corners of his eyes.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Somehow he slept. It probably helped that he was tired from the tips of his ears to the soles of his feet but, even so, at first he found himself waking at the slightest sound, wondering if those might be Yuri’s footsteps on the staircase or if the argument down the lane might be something to do with his son.

  Eventually sleep took him in its firm grasp and the next thing he knew the early dawn was brightening the window. And then he was on his feet and on the move. He wanted to go to Kievsky station aga
in first thing—if Yuri was in Moscow, he might still be in the neighborhood of the station, and if he went early enough, he wouldn’t be missed from the investigation. And he also wanted to find out if Yasimov had tracked down any of Goldstein’s lairs and what, if anything, he’d found there.

  He was just walking out onto the street when he saw them: the Chekists who’d followed him halfway round Moscow for most of the previous day, it seemed. They were standing under a streetlamp, smoking and, as usual, they didn’t avoid his gaze—instead the plump one waved him over. Korolev looked at them, the collar of his shirt suddenly feeling like a noose. He stared, hoping he’d mistaken the gesture, but then it came again, irritated now. The other one tapped his watch, as if to say, “We haven’t all day, Citizen Korolev, we’ve other people to be arresting as well, you know.”

  There was no ceremony when he reached them. They didn’t introduce themselves or tell him what they wanted from him—just directed him down the lane, one of them falling in on either side. They didn’t seem that interested in him, if the truth be told—in fact one of them yawned loudly. He wondered whether they’d slept, it didn’t look like it—they were unshaven and his nose told him they both needed a wash. Perhaps they’d been up all night, doing whatever men like them did. It was really nighttime work, their business, after all.

  They turned left at the corner, toward the sugar refinery, and Korolev wasn’t surprised to see their car parked farther along the street. There was also another car, however—a brand new ZIS, its chrome gleaming despite the long early morning shadows, a driver leaning against it.

  “He wants to talk to you,” the plump goon said and, as he spoke, the driver saw them, walked to the rear door of the car, and opened it.

  “Come in, Korolev,” a familiar voice said from the backseat and Korolev recognized it as Colonel Zaitsev’s. It occurred to him that not many citizens had the privilege of so many close encounters with senior Chekists in such a short period of time. He shrugged, took the sort of breath you might take before diving into a cold lake, and found himself squeezing onto what was left of the backseat. It might have helped if Korolev had been a smaller man. Or Colonel Zaitsev, for that matter. As it was, he found himself closer to the Comrade Colonel than was comfortable.

  “Close the door, there’s a good fellow, and let me have a look at you.”

  The colonel spoke softly, his dark eyes examining Korolev with care. Eventually Zaitsev nodded, as if satisfied with his inspection.

  “You look nervous, Korolev, and you’re right to be. I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes. No. Not at all.”

  Korolev looked down at the footwear in question, then at the colonel’s boots. He knew the colonel didn’t mean it literally, but all the same—if he’d a choice between the colonel’s boots and his own shoes, then he wouldn’t choose his shoes either. The colonel’s boots looked shapely as a pair of ballet dancers—the highly polished leather almost seeming to glow in the car’s interior.

  “Korolev? I’m talking to you.”

  “Yes, Comrade Colonel”—Korolev shook his head to clear it—“I hear you.”

  Which he did, but he’d been distracted by the fact that, while the colonel’s boots looked as though they’d just been stripped off an imperial hussar, the rest of Zaitsev’s clothes were crumpled and untidy, the buttons on his gymnastiorka undone as if he’d been exerting himself, and the buckle on his Sam Browne belt unfastened, letting his stomach spread out.

  “Well then. What have you to say for yourself?”

  To Korolev’s surprise he felt an enormous urge to say exactly what he thought of an organization in which one department told him to investigate two murders and another department came along and told him not to. Because he’d no doubt that this was what he was about to be told. But then, suspecting the brown specks on the colonel’s tunic might just be blood, he took a deep breath and reminded himself who he was talking to.

  “Comrade Colonel, I always attempt to do my duty to the best of my ability. If this is about the Azarov and Shtange murders, I’ve only ever followed instructions from my superiors. To the best of my ability.”

  The colonel snorted. “To the best of your ability?”

  “Perhaps my ability is limited, Comrade Colonel. I’ve always tried to recognize my limitations.”

  “It’s as well you do, Korolev. You are, after all, a simple detective—isn’t that right? A simple detective who has managed to become involved in matters well beyond his capabilities.”

  In not much more than twenty-four hours Korolev had been directly and indirectly threatened by two Chekist colonels, each of whom, he suspected, wanted completely different things from him. Yes, there was no doubt that he’d got in over his head. The colonel was certainly right about that.

  “You’ve even managed to lose your son.”

  Korolev was momentarily angry, but more than that he was concerned. Did Zaitsev have the boy? The colonel seemed to follow his thoughts because he smiled, apparently satisfied that he had Korolev’s full attention now.

  “Korolev, if I wanted to cause you difficulties, we wouldn’t be talking about things in such a comradely way. If I wanted to make life awkward for you, those fellows outside would be having the conversation, not me. And they’re very efficient at what they do, believe me. The big one, Blanter, looks on it as training for the ring. He’s tireless, believe me: punch, punch, punch. All night long. The other one, Svalov, looks softer but don’t be deceived—he’s the more inventive of the two. You can take my word for it, compared to Svalov, Blanter’s the soft one.”

  “I can believe it,” Korolev said, strangely pleased that he’d spotted Blanter as a boxer, while at the same time feeling his guts trying to make their way down to his toes.

  “Korolev, I want to make life easy for you. I’ve a proposal, a generous proposal. If you accept it—then, believe me, you’ll have a new friend. And friends like me can be useful in times like these. Of course, if you decline it—well—that would be a different story.”

  The colonel gestured in the direction of the two Chekists on the other side of the street.

  “Comrade Colonel?” Korolev said, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  It wasn’t that he wasn’t afraid, he was. But when a man’s afraid for a long time, Korolev knew, he begins to treat it as normality. And normality for him involved smoking cigarettes.

  “Of course not. We’re going to be friends, after all. Aren’t we?”

  Korolev found himself offering the Colonel the packet and, to his surprise, the Chekist took one, beginning to root around in his pockets for something to light it with before Korolev discovered his hand was now offering his matches as well.

  “Thank you, Korolev, a busy night—I smoked the last of mine a couple of hours back.”

  “I’m pleased to have the opportunity to assist you, Comrade Colonel,” Korolev said, thinking that cigarettes didn’t grow on trees.

  Perhaps the colonel heard the reservation in his voice because he laughed, smoke coming out of his mouth as he did so—before reaching into the pocket of his tunic for a handkerchief to dab the sweat from his face, a smile still on his lips.

  “Do you know why I want to help you find Professor Azarov’s killer?”

  Korolev decided that the colonel’s question wasn’t one he could safely answer.

  “Because,” the colonel continued, “it will stop you, and others, digging around in our affairs. Which would be better for everyone, wouldn’t it?”

  “From where I’m sitting, I’d have to agree with you,” Korolev said—and something about that amused the colonel all over again.

  “Well, if that’s your sincere wish—then I’ve something for you. Pass me that briefcase.”

  Korolev did as he was asked and Zaitsev pulled from it a sheet of typed paper, which he inspected briefly before handing it over.

  “This is a witness statement—evidence that establishes that there’s no direc
t connection between the murders and the institute. It was Shtange who killed the professor, so there’s a connection in that regard—but the reasons have more to do with personal animosity than science.”

  Korolev found himself struggling to keep his amazement from showing.

  “Personal animosity?” he said in a quiet voice.

  “The professor denounced Shtange as a saboteur, maliciously, so the good doctor killed him in revenge—or perhaps self-defense, if you consider the likely consequences if he’d been arrested on basis of the professor’s accusation. It doesn’t matter, either way, now they’re both dead.”

  Korolev read the first few lines of the document, before glancing back to the top of the page to find out who’d provided this helpful information.

  “But this is Priudski, the doorman. What did he have to do with it?”

  “Shtange promised him money to let him into the professor’s apartment on the morning of the murder. Shtange then refused to pay him, so Priudski went to his apartment to confront him. When the doctor still wouldn’t pay up, he stabbed him. It all turns out to be very straightforward.”

  Korolev read the statement and it was as exactly as the colonel said. At first glance, there was nothing obviously wrong with it—the signature was clear and firm and it was in the correct format. Of course, it was typed, which was unusual for Militia witness statements—but perhaps not for State Security. And perhaps its coming from the NKVD accounted for the fact that the paper was of surprisingly good quality, white and crisp to the touch. In Korolev’s world, statements were written on thin brownish paper that sometimes looked as if it had been an active participant in the interrogation. He’d opened files to find statements that had been smudged by what might have been sweat, or even tears—and sometimes other substances as well. His instincts told him this statement was too well written and too tidy. And then, of course, there were the anomalies in the story—anomalies that couldn’t be just winked away, either.

  “Where’s Priudski now?” Korolev asked.